by Lulu Taylor
‘The Beloved says you are an unbeliever, Cecily. You and Edward. You’re both destined for the fires of hell, even your children when they come,’ Arabella says as calmly as if she’s telling Cecily that the weather is inclement for the time of year. ‘But you still have a chance to join the elect. If only you’d see the truth. Listen to the Beloved and understand.’
Cecily suddenly looks utterly bewildered. ‘But Arabella, you’re going to give him this house! All of it – lock, stock and barrel. What am I supposed to make of it? You must realise that it’s a ridiculous thing to do.’
‘On the contrary, it’s a very sensible thing to do,’ Arabella returns. ‘The Day of Judgement is close at hand. The Beloved has made it all very plain to us. The signs are clear that the end of time is nigh.’
‘What signs?’ Cecily demands, her voice angry again. ‘Don’t tell me of war and plague and all the rest of it. They are as eternal as the moon! What do they signify?’
Letty goes to the window, standing in the curve of the bay and gazing out at the drive and the garden. She knows there is no point in arguing with Arabella. Cecily has not seen the Beloved, she does not know anything of the power he exerts and of the way that Arabella responds to him; she is bewitched by him, utterly in his power. And Letty can feel the power creeping into her as well. It’s something to do with the thrill in the belly his voice engenders, along with the feeling of absolute safety that comes from his certainty of their imperviousness to death and destruction. She doesn’t want it to be so, but the force of his gaze on her makes her skin prickle and the tips of her fingers shake, just as she sees Arabella tremble when she’s near him. She hasn’t been able to stop herself imagining the reverend embracing his wife, taking her into his arms and pressing his mouth on hers. What must that be like? To be one with the Beloved?
‘The greatest sign of all is the Beloved himself,’ replies Arabella, her voice serene. ‘He is the fifth incarnation.’
‘The what?’ asks Cecily.
Letty turns a little, concentrating hard on her sister’s words.
‘The fifth what?’ demands Cecily again.
‘First there was Adam. Then Noah. Then Abraham. Then Christ. And now—’
Cecily gasps and says in a horrified voice, ‘No, Arabella! Don’t dare say it! He can’t claim such a thing! He daren’t!’
What about Moses? thinks Letty. Why has he been missed out?
‘The Beloved is the next incarnation,’ Arabella says proudly.
Cecily leaps to her feet. ‘It’s blasphemy, Arabella! Wicked blasphemy! Does the bishop know?’
‘The time is not yet right for the world to know. Only we his followers have had the precious knowledge vouchsafed to us.’ Arabella leans forward to her sister, the excitement possessing her again. ‘Can’t you see the honour, the glory of it? The incarnation, here in this house! Where we will await the Coming, where we will be immune to death! Oh Cecily, that we’ve been chosen! Can’t you see it?’ She stands up and opens her arms wide, a beatific look on her face. ‘Believe, Cecily! Believe and be saved! Join us!’
As Cecily stares in horrified outrage, Letty feels a thrill down her back as she responds to her sister’s words. Yes, she thinks, without even meaning to. She has no desire now to go and live with Cecily and Edward as their unpaid companion. She wants to remain here, in the house she loves, with Arabella. And the Beloved. The thought makes her feel light-headed and she closes her eyes. What’s happening to me?
‘This is madness, Arabella!’ Cecily is saying loudly. ‘You can’t get away with it.’
‘I can and I will.’ Arabella smiles and raises her eyes to heaven, moving her lips in prayer.
Words float into Letty’s mind. For I am my Beloved’s. And he is mine.
Letty has her ear pressed against the door of the library. Cecily and Edward are in there with the lawyer while Arabella is away for the day, attending to tasks the Beloved has given her. Mr Simpson’s voice is easy to hear, though she cannot make out her sister’s questions. The answers are enough, though.
‘I’m afraid that religious mania is not sufficient to prove insanity. It’s perfectly possible to be sane and yet believe in the most arrant nonsense. Throughout human history people have been convinced that they are living in the end of days. Strong personalities exploit the credulous. This knave is no different to many who’ve gone before him.’
‘But’ – it’s Edward’s voice, aggrieved – ‘he claims to be some kind of divine manifestation! It’s blasphemy. I’ve written to the bishop. He cannot continue to allow this man to make these claims and remain in the Church. It’s sheer wickedness.’
‘That may be so. It’s the bishop’s decision. But whatever he rules, it makes no difference to your sister’s power to make over all her property to the Reverend Phillips if she so chooses.’
Letty hears Cecily say something and the reply from Mr Simpson.
‘Then I’m afraid you have no choice but to leave.’
‘But it’s my home too!’ The shout from Cecily penetrates the oak door of the library with its anguish.
‘I’m afraid not. Perhaps morally. But not legally. If she wishes you to leave, you must go.’
Letty hears quick footsteps and stands back just in time to be out of the way when Cecily flings open the door and runs across the black and white chequerboard floor of the hallway, sobbing violently, and heads upstairs.
The lawyer says, ‘All I can suggest, Mr Ford, is that perhaps you ought to do as Arabella suggests and become followers yourselves. Then you could stay.’
‘That’s not funny, Simpson,’ Edward replies. ‘This is a tragedy for us all.’
‘Of course it is. Forgive me.’
Letty walks slowly across the hall. I’ll go upstairs and find Cecily, she thinks. I must comfort her. But she’s already beginning to imagine a life here without her sister and brother-in-law. She’s starting to think of them as lost to the cause. Blind. Wilfully blind. Condemned.
But she and Arabella will be saved.
‘The flock gathers!’ cries the Beloved. He stands on the bottom step of the staircase, his arms flung wide as they come: from the outposts of the Beloved’s journey through ministry. Wherever he has been, he has gathered followers, from country parishes to city churches, from the Isle of Wight, where his words brought a dying man back to life, to the Army of the Redeemed, a small London sect that swiftly became part of the Beloved’s own army.
Where will they all sleep? wonders Letty. The rooms that belonged to her parents are now those of the Beloved and Sarah, his wife. But Arabella has it all in hand. Enid is watching, horrified, from behind the green baize door. The cook has already given notice.
‘You are the elect!’ calls the Beloved. His expression is joyful, his eyes bright with blue rapture. He wears a white shirt open at the neck, and a black waistcoat and black trousers that show off his fine, strong limbs. There is something about the majesty of his white hair and his physical strength that makes him appear ineffably wise and full of youthful vigour at the same time. It is a potent mix. Letty feels that strange rush of excitement that she can’t suppress when she sees him. He will be living here. They all will. A bright new future is beginning, and at its end the joyous Day of Judgement when all will be taken up to the house of the Almighty to live in bliss for eternity. Until then, they will exist in the peace and fellowship outlined by the Beloved, and worship in the church that Arabella is already having built in the grounds. And when the church is finished, the name of the house will be changed from Hanthorpe to Paradise House.
The gardeners carry in boxes and trunks belonging to the new arrivals. The ladies come, long skirts rustling – for the Beloved has decreed that women will wear long white skirts and white blouses buttoned to the neck. And it is nearly all ladies, none younger than thirty by the looks of it, most a good deal older. Certainly they are much older than Arabella, who is only twenty-five, and Letty, who is twenty-one on her next birthday. Some are not yet i
n their designated clothes, but have arrived in dark dresses, coats and hats. Some have shabby coats and worn hats, and the tired expressions that speak of a life of physical labour. It is evident that the Beloved exerts his power over all the classes of society, loving all his followers with equal fervour.
‘These are glory days, my children,’ the Beloved says. ‘Glory days. Hallelujah.’
‘Hallelujah!’ chorus the ladies nearest to him.
‘Praise be,’ the Beloved murmurs. ‘The time is at hand. I am almost ready to be revealed to my people.’
‘Praise be,’ call the ladies.
‘Praise be,’ Letty says obediently.
Chapter Fifteen
‘You’re not blind!’ I shout at Sissy, my voice ringing with accusation. Panic is gushing up inside me. How does she know about Heather? Did Heather get seen at the cottage after all? But . . . it’s not possible, it’s not!
Sissy and I stand in the church, staring at each other. Except that she shouldn’t be able to see me. And she can. I know it.
‘Yes, I am, dear. I can’t see a thing.’
‘You’re lying!’ I shout. ‘I know you are. How did you get here on your own if you can’t see? How do you know when I’m with you and I haven’t spoken? You sent that card, didn’t you? You wrote it. How could you do that, if you can’t see?’
‘I can still remember how to write,’ she says reasonably.
‘A blind person wouldn’t write in perfect neat lines like that, with no mistakes! You can see. Why don’t you just admit it? It’s obvious!’ I’m shaking, but whether with fear or anger, I don’t know. I’ve always noticed the way Sissy’s eyes follow movement. Now I know why. She isn’t blind. Maybe she thinks she is – but she isn’t. But I’m not going to admit anything.
‘My child,’ she says, coming towards me, holding out her arms. Her eyes are black. I can’t tell if they’re empty or not. She could be staring at me, or looking straight through me into infinity. ‘My poor child. I understand. I can sense your pain. You can talk to me about it.’
‘Shut up!’ I cry. I haven’t run this far and worked this hard to give it all up to this strange woman. I’m afraid of her – all that compassion, the open arms, the kindly warmth. I’m afraid of what she might make me see. I realise that she could be the one who opens the door I’ve been leaning so hard against, trying with all my might to keep it closed. I hold up my hands. ‘Stay away from me!’
Sissy is still moving towards me, her black eyes full of sympathy, shimmering with wetness. ‘You poor girl. I can help you—’
‘No!’ This can’t happen. I won’t permit it. I’ve done everything I can to stop it. But already I can sense that it may be too late. ‘Leave me alone! You don’t know anything about it!’ I turn and run, my feet loud on the bare wooden floor, then wrench open the door and bolt through it, straight into the person on the other side. I scream as I cannon into them, and a pair of strong hands grabs my upper arms and holds me steady.
‘Hey! Are you okay?’
I pull back and I’m staring up into ice-blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes. They are in a man’s face, with a mass of thick brown hair falling around his ears and a beard and moustache obscuring half his face. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and he’s well built, broad-chested with muscled, tanned arms. I’m shaking like a leaf and my teeth are chattering. He looks concerned and says again, ‘Are you okay?’
I nod, aware his hands are still firm on my upper arms.
‘You must be Rachel,’ he says, smiling. His teeth are perfectly straight and white, gleaming with magazine perfection. He lets go of my arms. ‘I wondered when we’d meet.’
‘Wh-who are you?’ I ask. Then I glance over my shoulder to the church behind me. I don’t want to see Sissy and I’m afraid that she’s shuffling towards me, feeling her way along the room as though she can’t see perfectly well. ‘I want to get away from here.’
‘Of course. I’ll take you back to the house. You look a bit shaken.’ He seems concerned for me, taking my arm and linking it through his as he turns to accompany me. ‘What happened in there?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ We start walking in the direction of the house, the man steering me onto a path I don’t know which looks as though it will efficiently edge the thicket I fought my way through earlier. ‘Sorry . . . who are you?’
‘My name is Archer.’ He smiles again. The blue eyes light up with friendliness; he beams with affection, even though I’m a stranger to him. The face behind the beard is olive-skinned, and the nose and mouth have a kind of Grecian perfection to them. ‘The girls told me about you.’
‘Sophia and Agnes?’
‘That’s right. I’ve just arrived. I’ve brought some friends with me. Dora and Daphne.’
More! I can’t cope with it . . . ‘How many of you are there now?’
‘Oh. Just me and the girls. So five of us altogether.’ He smiles at me. ‘I got a message from Agnes. She said it was time to get here. And you know what? I was already on my way.’
We’re approaching the house now. I can hardly hear him, or understand what he’s saying to me. I’m numb with the shock of what Sissy said to me. Her words are thudding against my mind, pounding at me. They’re like battering rams, hitting at the walls I’ve erected in my head. The walls are weakening. Soon they’ll break and all the things I’ve carefully shut behind them will come flooding out.
It will kill me! I can’t, I can’t.
I need to decide what to do now but even as I scrabble for strength, for all the resources I’ve called on up until now, I feel as though, finally, I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to do. The danger is both within me and without. There are more people in the house. How can I carry on there? How can it be what I wanted and needed so badly? I thought I’d found a place where Heather and I could be alone. But it doesn’t seem possible. It can’t happen. There’s nowhere to go. I’ve reached my limit.
I’m suddenly icy cold. I feel as though my breathing might stop altogether. I stand still.
Am I at the end? Is this it?
Archer takes a few steps forward and realises I’m not moving so he turns back to me. ‘Hey, Rachel, are you all right?’
I’m staring at the ground, my head full of a hissing white noise, feeling as though my heart is going to explode inside me. The world is in a conspiracy to take Heather away from me. All my plans, everything I’ve done, all the work I’ve put into finding a place where we can be together undisturbed – it’s all wasted. It’s over. It can never work.
I realise that I’ve known it’s over for a while.
‘Heather,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I tried so hard. I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you again.’
‘Who’s Heather?’ Archer says, looking around as if to see someone emerging from the thicket.
A terrible sadness sweeps over me. ‘My daughter.’
He looks surprised. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter. Is she here?’
I reach out with everything inside me to feel Heather’s presence. Lately, she’s been fading from me. Harder and harder to find her. There’s no trace of her around me now. I can’t even hear that gentle whisper, the soft sound of her calling ‘Mummy’ to me.
‘No,’ I say slowly.
‘Is she at home? With her dad?’
‘No.’ I can see her now as I last saw her. In her bed, hugging me. Smiling. I love you more.
I love you most.
I close my eyes. Inside me a silent scream is building. I manage to speak. ‘She’s nowhere.’ My mouth is dry. I’ve not said it. I’ve not thought it. I’ve not admitted it to myself. I’ve not permitted myself to make it real. But now, at last, I have no choice. I have to say it. My world will stop. ‘She’s gone. She’s dead.’
I don’t know what happens after that. Blackness, enveloping and forgiving, takes me away from the pain. I’ve not let myself feel it. It’s been a massive act of will, to stop the terror of it touching me. I can’t do
it anymore but I have a small respite left. Unconsciousness. And I’m grateful when it claims me.
Much later, without wanting to, I rise up through the darkness like a swimmer ascending through layers of water to the surface. I’m lying on the bed in our room and as I open my eyes, I see the small pile of Heather’s things next to me: the books, her pyjamas, the stuffed puffin on the top.
Black despair settles on me and, without meaning to, I groan. There’s a stirring in the room and I realise that I’m not alone.
‘Heather?’ I say, hoping against hope that somehow I’ve managed to summon her back, that the spell I worked so hard to magic is still working. My hunger for her is almost unendurable.
‘No,’ says a soft voice, not one I recognise. ‘Not Heather.’
Sharp pain stabs at me in my core. My eyes close, wetness dripping down my face from under my lids, and I sink back into the pillows. I’m freezing cold, right to my centre, as though everything in me is dying. I don’t care now. I don’t care about anything. I don’t want it, I don’t want this world. I can’t bear the pain. I shouldn’t have to suffer it.
Women are talking together somewhere nearby, their voices low, no more than a buzz of sound without words. There’s a tap at the door and someone goes over to it and opens it. I hear a man’s voice.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s coming round a bit now. But she’s really ill. She’s in terrible shock. I don’t think she wants to live.’
The man says, ‘Rachel needs healing.’
‘She does indeed.’
‘That’s why she’s been brought to us. That’s what we can give her.’
I close my mind to all of them and sink away. I hope I won’t wake up because I don’t want to know this agony anymore.
But I wake again later, when it’s dark. Someone is beside me and a warm hand is on my shoulder. I can hear a voice, low, rich and mellifluous.
‘I bless this servant, Rachel. I reach out to her in her time of grief and heal her wounded soul. I give her the sure and certain knowledge of the salvation to come and the hope that all will be made well, and all souls shall be reunited in love. I show her the path. I will take her with us on the journey to glory.’